


Snake in the Grass

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [26]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragon Riders, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25824523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: The Comte de Rochefort returns from Spain with a mission for the Musketeers to stop a traitor from defecting to Madrid. But can he be trusted?
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 27
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to season 3! Some dialogue from canon S2E1. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Constance took a few careful steps backward, extending Beltane's wing as she went. "That's it," she coaxed as the dragon fidgeted.

The break had healed nicely over the past four months since the battle with the Cardinal that had left Paris and the Musketeers devastated by destruction and loss. Beltane had lost his rider, and had almost lost his ability to fly, but care and patience had seen him through his recovery. Just like with the rest of the city. The Musketeer garrison had been rebuilt, along with other parts of Paris that had been destroyed during the Cardinal's reign of terror. Some places were still under reconstruction, but overall the city and its people had healed.

"Lift it higher, just a few feet," Constance instructed. She could see Beltane cringing as he did as he was told, arching his wing up above her head. "Now ease it down. Good. That didn't hurt too bad, did it?"

He flitted his gaze away and she knew she was right. She also knew he was struggling to care about the simple tasks because his heart still ached with grief. Once his physical strength was fully recovered, they'd have to pair him with a new rider. Not to replace the one he'd lost and missed dearly, but to give him something to live for again.

Across the royal dragon compound, Constance's father was bringing Dragor out to saddle him. Musketeer dragon riders and their dragons also began to arrive from the garrison next door, their dragons saddled and ready for flight. Shortly thereafter, a procession of guards and attendants accompanied King Louis into the compound. He was dressed in leather riding gear complete with altitude cloak.

Ever since the Cardinal's coup when Louis had decided to ride his father's dragon into battle to retake his throne, the King had taken up regular flights with his dragon. Constance had never thought she'd see the day, but she was glad of it. She and her father could only exercise Dragor so much; the dragon deserved a true rider to fly out with.

Accompanied by his Musketeer guard, of course. Athos, now captain of the Musketeers, strode into the garrison with his dragon, Savron. Constance watched them all mount up and then take to the skies for a leisurely afternoon flight. The guards and attendants left behind were forced to find some shade to pass the time in until the King returned.

Constance returned her attention to Beltane. "Lift it again. Come on."

Beltane heaved a sigh but proceeded to obey.

"Good morning, Constance."

"Your Majesty!" Constance exclaimed in surprise. She hadn't noticed the Queen had accompanied the King to the compound.

Anne smiled and raised a hand. "Please, I don't mean to interrupt you."

"I was just taking Beltane through some exercises so he can regain the use of his wing," she explained.

Anne turned a concerned gaze on the dragon. "Will he?"

"Yes. If he keeps going," Constance added with a pointed look at the dragon.

Beltane struggled to lift his wing three more times before the appendage finally sagged on the ground.

"You did well," Constance praised him, picking up the wing and helping him to fold it down across his back. "I think you earned a few apples as a reward."

"Apples?" Anne repeated. "I thought dragons were carnivores."

"Mostly, though some of them develop a taste for other staples. Beltane here loves apples, don't you?"

The depressed dragon didn't rise to the bait, and Constance gave him a gentle pat on the neck.

"Anyone else have curious tastes?" Anne asked.

"Well, Porthos's dragon Vrita likes cheese. Etienne's dragon Astra is known to sneak a freshly baked pastry."

Anne's lips quirked in amusement. "They all possess unique personalities, don't they?"

Constance nodded with a fond smile, then shifted awkwardly. "I should get Beltane his treat…"

"May I help?" Anne asked.

Constance faltered. "Oh, um…" She glanced over at the Queen's ladies-in-waiting looking bored in the shade. There certainly wasn't much to do standing around waiting for the King to return. Constance wondered why the Queen had come. "Of course," she finally answered and turned to lead the way to one of the storerooms.

Constance went inside and brought out four apples. "Would you like to feed him?" she asked, offering one to Anne.

The Queen looked nervous but went ahead and took the fruit, then turned and held her hand out tentatively to Beltane. She jumped slightly when the dragon brushed his lips across her hand to snatch up the apple. The loud crunch of his fangs decimating the crispy fruit sounded more menacing than it was.

Constance tried to hide her smile and fed him the next one, then offered the third to the Queen again. This time Anne was a little more confident when she held out the fruit for the dragon to snatch up.

Constance fed him the last one and stroked the side of his neck as he chewed. He offered her a soft look in return that for the first time in months reached his eyes.

Constance then let him go to roam for a place in the sun to nap in.

"Thank you," she said to the Queen, somewhat self-consciously. "I think he appreciated some attention without my father or I pestering him with rehabilitation."

Anne smiled softly in return. "Perhaps I could visit him again," she said thoughtfully.

Constance smiled back. "You are always welcome, Your Majesty."

Anne nodded, and Constance felt as though she'd just extended a branch of friendship—and it'd been accepted.

.o.0.o.

The wind buffeted d'Artagnan's face as Ayelet soared over the French countryside. At a year old, she was just about fully grown and fit a saddle almost perfectly, which meant she was finally ready to be a Musketeer dragon and fly with d'Artagnan on missions. Currently they were out with Aramis and Porthos hunting rogue red guards and their dragons who had escaped Paris after the Cardinal's demise. Reports had been sketchy and unreliable the past few months, but they had to be investigated nonetheless.

However, three days out scouring the countryside and they hadn't found a trace of their quarry. D'Artagnan hoped they'd call it quits soon so he could return home to Constance.

The Musketeer dragons glided over a stretch of woodland to the east of a small town. Up ahead where it cleared into a wide field, a large group of people emerged from the tree line. It took d'Artagnan a moment to notice the figure in the middle of the throng, head covered in sackcloth and hands bound as he was dragged forward. A length of rope was around his neck…and the people were heading to a lone tree in the center of the field.

D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis and Porthos, who wordlessly turned their dragons into a descent. The arrival of three massive beasts stalled the lynch mob, though they didn't release their prisoner or scatter as the three musketeers swiftly dismounted.

"Who is this man and what has he done?" Aramis asked loudly.

"None of your damn business," one of the villagers snarled.

"We are King's Musketeers," Aramis replied with a casual glance back at the dragons, who were more than enough incentive to cow these men. "So answer the question. Politely."

The village spokesperson ground his teeth but said, "He shot our innkeeper in cold blood. A good man is dead and there were a dozen witnesses."

Aramis nodded seriously. "There will be no lynching today. If there's a case against him, you can take him to the magistrate's. Take off his hood and untie him."

There was some grumbling and shifting among the villagers, but again, the Musketeer dragons were good motivators. The prisoner's hands were untied and the hood pulled off his head, revealing a slightly battered face under a mess of lanky blond hair.

"Rochefort," Porthos uttered in disbelief.

"Musketeers," the man sneered in return. "Just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse."

D'Artagnan raised his brows. That was some thanks for intervening when he was about to be hanged. "Will one of you tell me who this man is?" he asked, angling his head toward Aramis and Porthos.

"The Comte de Rochefort," Aramis replied stiffly. "One of the Cardinal's most loyal lieutenants. His agent in Madrid." He nodded to the villagers. "Go ahead, hang him."

The villagers surged forward, seizing him again roughly.

"You can't just let them kill me!" he yelled. "I have news of vital importance for the King!"

"Wait!" Aramis interjected. He worked his jaw and glanced at Porthos, then shook his head grudgingly. "It seems we'll take him after all."

"No," a villager snapped. "He's going to pay for his crime."

D'Artagnan raised one hand placatingly while moving his other to his sword hilt. "Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be."

There was an enraged bellow, and several men charged at the musketeers. The three of them whipped out their swords to meet the armed attackers, even though all the villagers were wielding were pitchforks and clubs. D'Artagnan focused on defensive parries while searching for an opening to disarm his assailant without doing irreparable harm.

Behind him, the dragons were shrieking and spitting, but they also knew not to attack barely armed citizens. Vrita shuffled forward, trying to scare them back, and it worked for a couple, but there were still too many keeping the musketeers occupied while the rest of the villagers dragged Rochefort toward the tree and a sturdy oak branch fit for a noose.

An ear-splitting screech suddenly rent the air from a distance as a large brown dragon came lumbering out from the woods, directly at them. It belted out another roar, its eyes blazing with murderous intent. Ayelet leaped out in front to intercept it, hunkering down and shrieking up at the larger dragon. It skidded to a clumsy stop, blinking in stupefaction at this lithe thing standing in his way. D'Artagnan tensed, having no idea where this dragon had come from or what it wanted.

"Falkor!" Rochefort yelled, and the brown dragon snapped its gaze from Ayelet toward the man.

Guess that answered that question.

The dragon pulled back its lips and snarled at the villagers, who finally stumbled away in fright. Compared to the Musketeer dragons who had obviously been holding back, this dragon had no such qualms.

"Rochefort, if that's your dragon, tell it to stand down!" Aramis snapped, his left hand preemptively on his pistol, which d'Artagnan knew was loaded with acimite in anticipation of running into one of the Cardinal's dragons.

For a moment, Rochefort didn't say anything, but then he raised his voice and called, "Falkor, leave them."

The dragon narrowed its eyes, flicking an uncertain look between his master and the other dragons, but he slowly sat back on his haunches.

D'Artagnan briefly turned to the remaining villagers. "Go home, now!"

They also hesitated before complying but at least finally began to back off. None of the musketeers or dragons moved until all of them had gone. Even then, there was still a heavy tension between them.

"You can put your swords away," Rochefort said disdainfully, making his way toward his dragon.

D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis and Porthos to see what they'd do. After a moment, they carefully sheathed their blades. Ayelet backed away from the other dragon.

"Didn't realize you had a dragon wit' you," Porthos said.

"I needed food and drink and Falkor needed a rest," Rochefort replied. "Unfortunate he almost slept through my execution," he added with a glower at the dragon.

"Why did you kill the innkeeper?" Aramis asked.

"Does it matter? You can't turn me over to the magistrate, not with the information I have for the King."

D'Artagnan's brow furrowed. He really didn't like this man's smug attitude.

"The last we heard, you were rottin' in a Spanish prison with no hope of release," Porthos said. "What happened?"

"I was being transferred to Madrid. By God's grace, I managed to get to Falkor and we escaped."

"Why not go straight to Paris?"

Rochefort crouched down and ran a hand over his dragon's foreleg, drawing all their gazes to it. It was deeply scarred and gnarled so that the dragon wasn't even putting weight on it as he sat in the grass.

"This is just one of the many atrocities the Spanish inflicted on him," Rochefort explained, straightening up. "He cannot endure a long flight as he once could."

Aramis and Porthos shared a look.

"Alright, we'll escort you to Paris," Aramis said.

Rochefort didn't even look pleased. "I have to retrieve Falkor's saddle from those woods there."

"Then let's go," Aramis replied, gesturing for him to lead the way.

Rochefort's mouth ticked slightly in what may have been a derisive sneer, but he turned and started toward the tree line. His dragon turned around and limped after him, and the musketeers and their dragons picked up the trail behind them.

"Can we trust him?" d'Artagnan asked quietly. "If he was the Cardinal's agent…"

Porthos snorted. "We absolutely can't." He raised his voice to call ahead, "What is this vital news of yers?"

"That is for the King's ears alone," Rochefort shot back.

"Captain Athos will decide what's fit for the King to hear," Aramis put in.

Rochefort paused and looked over his shoulder. " _Captain_ Athos?" he repeated, sounding stunned.

"That's right," Aramis said with a smug smirk of his own.

A muscle in Rochefort's jaw ticked before he resumed walking. "I may have worked for the Cardinal, but that was before he was a traitor to the Crown."

"You heard about that?" d'Artagnan asked.

"There isn't anyone in all of Europe, even prison, who hasn't. I assure you, my loyalty to him died when he abandoned me to rot in that Spanish hellhole."

"Yeah, but if he'd been in Paris, I'd bet a month's wages he woulda been standin' at the Cardinal's right hand," Porthos muttered.

Aramis made a small noise of agreement. "Keep an eye on him," he said quietly. "It's a long flight back to Paris, especially with his dragon in the shape it's in."

"Why would the Spanish torture a dragon like that?" d'Artagnan asked, keeping his voice down too.

"The same reason they'd torture a man," Aramis answered. "To break its spirit."

D'Artagnan cringed at the thought. He couldn't imagine doing something like that to a dragon. Or to a man. He felt a stirring of pity for Rochefort, though he knew not to let himself fall prey to such soft sentiment. Aramis and Porthos obviously disliked the man, which meant they probably had good reason to. D'Artagnan would keep his guard up.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos stood behind the desk in his office, back straight and shoulders stiff. D'Artagnan had recently arrived ahead of Aramis and Porthos in order to inform Athos of whom they'd met out on the road and were bringing back with them. Athos could hardly believe it. There weren't many people he would wish the hideous fate of a Spanish prison on, but Rochefort was one of them. The man was a snake. He held no love for France or duty, though the Cardinal had seemed able to control his intractable tendencies—and make use of them.

He should have stayed rotting in that Spanish prison.

Athos clenched his jaw and reminded himself to put aside his feelings for Rochefort and listen to what the man had to say. Claiming he had vital news for the King was a sure way to get himself safely to Paris, but he could be lying just to serve his own needs. As captain, Athos would make sure the man didn't get anywhere near the King unless his information had validity. Treville would back him up too.

Athos looked around his office. Four months and he was more or less settled into his new role. Part of him wished Treville was still the captain, but France had needed a First Minister after the Cardinal and the King couldn't have chosen someone more trustworthy. If Athos's promotion was the sacrifice he had to make in order to see France's government stabilized, then so be it.

It helped that the room wasn't identical to the way it'd been for Treville; freshly cut beams and panels filled in the walls that had been destroyed in the Cardinal's attack. An alcove had been built into the back to serve as Athos's chambers rather than keeping the bed out in the front. The desk had been salvaged, though, and that Athos was happy to keep. But in every other way, the office was more Athos's than it had ever been Treville's.

A knock sounded at the door and he straightened. "Bring him in."

The door opened and Aramis entered, escorting none other than Rochefort. Porthos and d'Artagnan came in behind them and shut the door. Rochefort looked bedraggled, a far cry from the groomed appearance of a Comte. Athos's expression was carefully schooled as always, but Rochefort was looking him up and down with open disdain.

"Captain Athos," he said, putting derisive emphasis on the title. "I wish I could say it's a pleasure."

"You want to see the King," Athos said, having no intention of bandying words with this cretin. "Why?"

"I'm not spilling my secrets to a musketeer flunky," Rochefort scoffed.

"It's either that or rot in the lockup," Athos replied uncaringly. Actually, he'd prefer if Rochefort chose the lockup.

The disheveled Comte regarded them all carefully. "Fine," he said. "While I was being transferred to Madrid, I learned that one of the Cardinal's top agents has made a deal with Spain to defect. Someone with such valuable information certainly can't be allowed to betray France to Spain."

"If he's already defected, I don't see what can be done about it," Athos said tightly. The news was troubling, especially given some of the Cardinal's high ranking red guards were still at large.

"Did I say he already reached Spanish soil?" Rochefort rejoined contemptuously. "There is still time to apprehend him. Or at the very least prevent him from talking."

"I don't suppose you have any idea where to find him?" Aramis put in.

Rochefort flicked an unimpressed look his way. "I do. The meeting place where he is supposed to turn himself over to Spanish custody. But that is a detail I will only share with the King."

Athos ground his teeth. Behind Rochefort, Porthos stood pressing one meaty fist into the other and glaring at the Comte's back, and Athos had half a mind to let him beat the information out of Rochefort.

But if he was telling the truth, they didn't have much time to stop this traitor.

Athos gave d'Artagnan a subtle nod to go ahead to the palace to announce they'd be coming—and to give Treville a heads-up. Treville may be First Minister, but he and Athos had worked more in tandem than the previous Minister and Captain of the Musketeers ever had.

D'Artagnan slipped out, taking a quickened half-jog down the steps to the yard while the rest of them followed at a more sedate pace.

Athos cast his gaze toward Rochefort's dragon where it stood in the yard, wild eyes darting around as though expecting an attack. He caught Savron's eye and cocked his head toward the brown dragon, indicating the alpha silverback should keep an eye on him.

The musketeers escorted Rochefort to the palace and into the throne room where, despite the advance notice, most everyone reacted in surprise upon seeing him. Granted, anyone who knew him from before would find his appearance startling. Courtiers and Council members were both in attendance, and many curious eyes were fixed on the unexpected visitor.

"Your Majesties," Athos said, bowing before them. "I give you the Comte de Rochefort, recently escaped from a Spanish prison."

The Queen was the first to step forward. "You are welcome home, Rochefort." Her expression pinched as she surveyed his countenance. "You have suffered cruelly," she said, aggrieved.

"The thought of Your Majesty's grace and beauty sustained me through my long hours of confinement," he replied.

Anne blushed and turned to the others. "The Comte de Rochefort and I are old friends," she explained. "He tutored me in preparation for my marriage and taught me all I knew of France."

"We look forward to hearing of your daring escape," Louis said.

"Let me through!" a loud voice sounded from the back. "I insist on an audience with the king."

A balding man with a salted beard pushed his way past the gathered nobles.

"His Excellency Don Fernando Perales, Ambassador of Spain," a trailing palace guard announced.

"So I see," Louis said tightly, looking displeased at the interruption. "Don Fernando, how are you?"

"I demand this man's arrest," the ambassador exclaimed, jabbing a finger at Rochefort. "He's a fugitive from justice."

Athos exchanged subtle glances with his fellow musketeers. This was an interesting development. Not that Athos expected the King to give in to the ambassador's demands, unfortunately.

Perales leveled a sharp look at Louis. "If your First Minister were wise, he would advise Your Majesty to take the path of diplomacy and common sense."

Louis visibly bristled at the verbal barb even though Treville kept his expression neutral. "Rochefort is a French citizen and a patriot," Louis declared. "No, he will not be returned."

"You would be wise to listen to me…"

Rochefort suddenly spun around and backhanded Perales so hard the man went sprawling on the floor. "Who do you think you are talking to?" the Comte bellowed over him. "Never insult the King again in my presence."

Athos tensed, his hand reflexively going to his sword. Murmurs rippled through the nobles.

The ambassador slowly got to his feet, one hand pressed to the corner of his mouth. "Will you let this outrage pass?" he demanded of the King.

"Frankly, I wish I'd done it myself," Louis replied.

A series of chuckles sounded from the audience. The ambassador's face reddened, and after a moment, he spun on his heel and swept from the room.

Louis was still smirking as he turned to Rochefort. "You're a dangerous man, Rochefort, but an entertaining one. Now, what is this urgent news of yours?"

"If I might speak to Your Majesty in private?"

Louis's expression turned serious and he waved for the courtiers and Council members to vacate the room. "My First Minister and my Musketeers have my utmost trust. You can speak in front of them."

Rochefort hesitated, and Athos could have sworn he saw the man's eye twitch. But he quickly regained his calm composure.

"One of the Cardinal's top lieutenants has made a deal to defect to Spain. He's taken refuge in Savoy at a Spanish outpost and is awaiting a larger contingent to come and give him protected passage to Madrid. I can lead a group of musketeers to the location and we can intercept him before the Spanish do."

Louis looked to Treville. "What do you think?"

"The Cardinal was a central figurehead in France's government. Should his lieutenant have any knowledge of those inner workings, sharing it with Spain could be extremely detrimental to France."

Louis nodded sagely. "Then we must stop him." He turned back to Rochefort. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Rochefort."

The Comte inclined his head. "My only aim is to serve you, Your Majesty. If I can prevent this traitor from reaching Spain, it would be my honor."

"Very well," Louis replied. "Then see it done."

Athos shifted tensely and shared chagrined looks with the others. Just what they needed, a mission working with Rochefort.

Athos suddenly found a perk for being captain relegated to the confines of the garrison.

.o.0.o.

As soon as Rochefort was able to slip away, he took a path through the palace down to what used to be the Cardinal's private chapel. Many a clandestine meeting had taken place within its walls. It would serve Rochefort well now that he was finally returned to Paris. That was the one good thing that came of the Cardinal's death. Spain knew France was weak and wanted to exploit it to their own gain. To that end, they'd offered Rochefort a deal in exchange for his freedom, which he took without question.

Perales was waiting for him in the chapel when he arrived, as he was to be Rochefort's contact and handler. More like the man holding his leash. Or so he thought.

"You should not have hit me," Perales snapped at him. "I was humiliated in front of the King."

"It was better to surprise you," Rochefort replied dryly. "After all, I am supposed to hate your country."

Perales scowled. "Your release from prison was not my idea. You were the Cardinal's man. I see no reason to trust a French turncoat."

He was the Cardinal's man, but the Cardinal was now dead. "In return for my life, I swore an oath of loyalty to Spain. Trust me, or don't, it's of no importance. Now, do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"

"Very well. Did they take the bait?"

"The king was delighted by my plan. He still fears the Cardinal's reach, even from beyond the grave. I stop this traitor from betraying him and I arrive back in Paris a hero, perfectly positioned to insert myself in the King's affections."

Perales scoffed. "You underestimate his trust in his Musketeers. _They_ are the heroes in the King's eyes."

"Which is why they will die heroically in this mission," Rochefort said. "Killing them will weaken the King's protection."

Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, three of the most legendary musketeers, would meet an untimely end in Savoy. That still left Athos and Treville to deal with, but Rochefort would find a way to chip away at the King's trust in them until Louis was alone and Rochefort the only friend he could rely on.

Perales fixed him with a stern glare. "For your sake, I only hope it works. The men at the outpost know to expect you. It's fortunate for you the Cardinal's lieutenant doesn't actually know anything of value or you would have nothing to barter with."

A metallic rattle cut through the stillness of the chapel and they both spun toward the sound as a bishop stumbled out from behind a column. Rochefort lunged forward and seized him by the collar of his robes, slamming him back against the stone.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled. "Why are you spying on us?"

"I'm not a spy," the man spluttered. "I came to pray, that's all."

Rochefort burrowed his gaze into the trembling bishop, then released him. "Leave us."

But as soon as the man turned to scurry away, Rochefort drew a knife and thrust it up between the bishop's shoulder blades. The body jerked before falling limp. Rochefort let him drop on the cold stone floor.

Perales stared at him with something akin to horror.

Rochefort shrugged blithely. "You can never be too careful."

The good thing about once having been the Cardinal's man was he knew where to hide the bodies.

.o.0.o.

Aramis finished securing his saddlebags to Rhaego's back just as Rochefort strode into the garrison. He exchanged a look with Porthos. Neither of them were looking forward to this mission.

Athos stood up from the table under the balcony where he'd been waiting.

"The King's approved my plan," Rochefort began without preamble. "You will all work under my command."

"This is a Musketeer mission," Athos countered firmly. "Aramis will take charge."

"The King gave me his authority," Rochefort replied.

"The day musketeers take orders from the Cardinal's stooge is the day I resign my commission," Porthos growled.

"For the sake of France, we must find a way to work together," Rochefort insisted.

None of them said anything to that. There was no way they could trust Rochefort enough to put him in charge. Especially not with a mission as important as this.

Rochefort finally relented. "I accept your terms. The last person the Spanish will expect to see is their old prisoner Rochefort. Naturally, they'll be grateful to the bandits who bring him in. You will be the bandits, of course."

"If we're caught out of uniform, we'll be treated as spies," Porthos pointed out. "That means instant execution."

"Well, if that prospect scares you…"

Porthos took a menacing step forward. "Say again?"

"Porthos," Athos said in a low tone.

"So, once we've got this traitor…how do we escape?" d'Artagnan asked. "The treaty with Savoy prevents us from bringing our dragons into their territory."

"We'll just have to take the men by surprise and subdue them so they can't give pursuit," Rochefort said.

"Oh, is that all?" Porthos snorted.

"Surely the mighty Musketeers can handle that."

"Enough," Athos barked. He looked to Aramis with the unspoken question of whether he was ready, since he was the one leading this merry mission.

Aramis gave a barely perceptible nod in return. He frankly didn't like Rochefort's plan, but he didn't have a better one and they could not allow the Cardinal's lieutenant to defect to Spain.

"I'll get my dragon, then," Rochefort said snidely.

"Your dragon is half crippled," d'Artagnan pointed out. "I thought we were in a hurry?"

"Falkor will make it to the border in time," Rochefort assured him. "And I will ride no other."

He marched off.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and Porthos scowled.

Aramis stepped closer to Athos. "We could always arrange an unfortunate accident on the road."

Athos snorted softly. "Don't tempt me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to tessseagull for the Spanish!

It was late evening when the musketeers arrived at the border. Since the humans would be going ahead on foot, they'd have to make camp for the night and set off in the morning. Ayelet wasn't happy about being left behind. She was a Musketeer dragon now, which meant she should be flying into danger with her rider, not waiting around like a ferry service while d'Artagnan went gallivanting off into enemy territory.

He had explained the treaty to her, of course, and how the dragons' presence would be a hindrance in this instance rather than an asset, but Ayelet wasn't buying it. Having the might of three dragons at their back was never a hindrance. Four if the newcomer's dragon Falkor could be counted on.

Ayelet didn't know what to make of him. He hadn't spoken to any of them since their meeting but instead had kept his distance and growled warningly when anyone veered too close. Vrita and Rhaego were content to give him a wide berth, but Ayelet felt strange shunning him.

He wasn't the only one, though, she noticed. There was a palpable tension and dislike between the musketeers and Falkor's rider as well.

The humans made camp and Vrita and Rhaego went off to hunt, leaving Ayelet to stand guard. Soon a small fire was crackling as evening dipped into twilight. The men, despite their obvious animosity, gathered around the fire and wordlessly passed around rations.

"How long were you in the Spanish prison?" d'Artagnan asked, breaking the silence.

"Almost five years," Rochefort replied, his gravely voice pitched low. "Many times they told me I was going to die, then revoked the sentence even as the noose was around my neck. It was a game to them."

"A cruel game," Aramis said sympathetically.

Rochefort shifted on the log he was sitting on and tugged his shirt down past his shoulder. "This is what they did to me. I'm not ashamed to admit I begged for mercy."

Ayelet craned her neck to get a glimpse for herself. Hideous, raised scars marred the man's shoulder and around his back.

"Pain eats at the soul until there is nothing left of a man's courage or dignity," Rochefort went on, pulling his shirt back up. "They tortured my dragon too, just for sport."

Ayelet's gaze drifted over to where the brown dragon had curled up away from the rest of them. She had noticed his scars the moment he'd come barreling across the field toward them, as numerous and grisly as his rider's.

"They stole my honor," Rochefort's voice continued. "And I want it back."

"You have every reason to seek revenge," Aramis said quietly.

Ayelet stood up and meandered over to where Falkor was lying. Despite his utter stillness, she could tell he wasn't asleep. He narrowed his eyes and rumbled low in his throat. She paused for just a moment, but Rhaego had often greeted her in such a manner so she shuffled forward the last few steps, leaving a fair amount still between them. Falkor didn't say anything.

Ayelet was sorry he'd had to endure such torment and told him so. He didn't respond, and she went on to tell him he was among friends now. She still got no reaction.

The thwack of wing beats announced Vrita's and Rhaego's return with dinner. Ayelet invited Falkor to come join them. This time his response was to turn his head away.

She hesitated, unsure what to do to make him feel more at home, but Vrita called her over, so she reluctantly turned away and headed back to where the others had deposited their catch.

The musketeers waited until the dragons had finished eating before settling in for the night. Rhaego would take first watch.

Ayelet shuffled around to find a comfortable spot to bed down in, but just as she was ready to close her eyes and try to sleep, she found herself looking toward Falkor again. The dragon hadn't moved an inch. He had to be hungry though, and why hadn't his rider seen to it that he'd eaten something? D'Artagnan would never let Ayelet go to bed hungry.

She got up and went over to the carcasses, grabbing a leftover chunk and tearing it off. She then carried it over to Falkor and deposited it on the ground a few feet from him. If she was hoping for some kind of acknowledgement, she was sorely disappointed.

After standing there awkwardly for a few more moments, she finally turned and went back to lie down for the night. But only a couple of minutes later she heard a faint shuffling, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Falkor nibbling at the raw meat.

Ayelet closed her eyes with a pleased smile.

.o.0.o.

The next morning, the musketeers removed their pauldrons and stowed them in their dragons' saddlebags. Porthos hated being out of uniform, but he took great pleasure in tying Rochefort's hands together.

"Not too tight," the Comte said scathingly. "This is just for show."

Porthos cinched the rope a smidgen further. "An' it needs to be a good one."

He turned to the others as they finished packing up their campsite. Once they returned with the traitor they wouldn't be sticking around. Aramis looked them over, then nodded. With that, they set off into Savoy.

The Spanish outpost was supposed to be only a couple of miles from the border, a friendly renting of land for Spanish travelers crossing Savoy's territory to make a safe overnight stop at. It'd be quite a trek for Rochefort with his hands bound, but one never knew if they'd run into a scouting party.

Aramis took the lead, with Porthos and Rochefort in the middle and d'Artagnan taking up the rear. Porthos kept an eye on Aramis as they went. While the Savoy massacre had taken place a ways north of their current position, Porthos knew any forest of Savoy looked the same as the next one—and held the same memories for the marksman. At least it wasn't winter and there was no snow or frost to contend with.

Aramis, for his part, walked with a stoic determination and didn't give any indication that he was fazed by being here.

They were almost to the outpost when two sentries armed with pistols stepped out from behind some trees to intercept them.

Aramis immediately held up his hands. " _Tranquilo_ ," he said in Spanish. " _Nos gustaría ver al hombre a cargo. Le trajimos un pequeño regalo_." He cocked his head toward Rochefort.

The guards exchanged curious looks and then gestured for them to come along.

A few yards ahead they came upon a cluster of small log cabins. One of the guards called out something, and a moment later another Spanish soldier stepped outside. He pulled up short in apparent surprise at the sight of Rochefort.

" _Bueno, bueno, bueno, ¿qué tenemos aquí?_ "

" _Lo atrapamos fuera de Nimes_ ," Aramis said. " _Pensé que lo reconocía, y pensé que a España le gustaría recuperarlo_."

Porthos tried not to fidget in discomfort over not being able to understand what was being said. Aramis was holding himself casually, though, so things must have been going according to plan.

He and the Spanish soldier in charge exchanged a few more words and then Aramis gestured for Porthos to bring Rochefort forward. Porthos tugged on the rope harshly—just for show, of course. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he detected a palpable tension emanating from the Spanish soldiers. Like they were waiting for something.

But they didn't move, and when the musketeers were close enough, the three of them finally struck. Aramis surged forward to sucker punch the leader while Porthos spun and threw his arms around one guy's neck, cutting off his air so he couldn't scream. D'Artagnan took out the other sentry with a pistol whip to the back of the head. In a matter of seconds, they were all dropped without a shot fired or speck of blood spilt.

Rochefort wriggled out of the ropes while the rest of them quickly dragged the bodies out of sight to hide between two of the cabins. No one came out to investigate any sounds of disturbance. It was almost too easy.

"Which building?" Porthos hissed.

Rochefort rolled his eyes. "As if I'm supposed to know that. But I suggest you try the one with the trail of smoke coming from the chimney."

Porthos clenched his fists, wishing he could wring Rochefort's neck with them, but the Comte was already crossing the small yard toward the cabin in question. The rest of them hurried to keep up and stopped outside the door to listen. It was quiet within.

Rochefort twisted the knob and pushed it open so the musketeers could sweep inside. Two guards leaped to their feet, but Porthos and Aramis knocked them out before they had a chance to draw their swords. The third man was dressed in a dirty and frayed Red Guard uniform, and he scrambled back against the wall in fright. Fortunately, he wasn't armed. His Spanish benefactors probably hadn't trusted him as far as they could throw him.

D'Artagnan moved forward and grabbed his arm to lash the length of rope they'd used on Rochefort around his wrists. "Let's go."

"I will not go back to hang!" the man snarled, trying to wrench free.

Rochefort pulled a pistol from under his shirt and pointed it at the traitor, yet before he could squeeze the trigger, Aramis lurched forward and shoved his arm down.

"That's a last resort," he said in a low warning tone.

Rochefort glared at him but took a small step back.

D'Artagnan silenced their prisoner with a scarf between his teeth and knotted it at the back of his head.

"You tryin' to give us away?" Porthos growled as he pushed past the Comte.

Not that it mattered, for the moment he stepped foot outside, a shot ricocheted off the door frame near Porthos's head. He ducked back inside, slamming the door shut behind him. More balls struck the wood and shattered the window to the side. Aramis chanced a quick look out before swiftly taking cover again as more shots bombarded the cabin.

"There's a dozen men out there," Aramis said.

Porthos grabbed a fistful of Rochefort's shirt and yanked him forward. "That's a lot more than you said there'd be," he fumed.

Rochefort shoved him off. "The Spanish contingent must have made better time than I anticipated."

"You think!"

Rochefort just _had_ to ride his half crippled dragon. They could have been in and out yesterday and avoided this mess!

"Here," d'Artagnan called quietly, opening a window in the back. "I don't see anyone out here."

Aramis nodded and gestured for them to go while he covered them.

D'Artagnan climbed out first, and Porthos waited tensely to see if he would be discovered. But there were no pistol shots out back, so he grabbed their prisoner and more or less pushed him out the window. There was a muffled sound as he landed on the ground but d'Artagnan quickly hauled him to his feet. Porthos climbed out next, then Rochefort, and lastly Aramis. They took off into the woods, unfortunately in the opposite direction of the border, but they had little choice in the matter.

Their prisoner hampered their pace, whether by deliberately or not deliberately tripping over every little root and rut. Shouts went up behind them and Porthos spotted figures weaving between trees on their tail. More shots whizzed through the air. How were they so heavily armed at a simple outpost?

He really wished they hadn't left the dragons behind.

Porthos paused long enough to return fire, though he couldn't see whether he hit anyone. A few feet away, Aramis stopped as well and took a shot. That one definitely struck true and Porthos heard the pained cry of its target.

D'Artagnan shoved their prisoner toward Rochefort and turned around to join them. Porthos and Aramis reloaded as d'Artagnan fired his pistol.

They were sorely outnumbered, but there was no way they'd be able to outrun these men either, not unless they culled enough to deter them.

A ball struck the tree next to Porthos from the left and he realized the men were spreading out to come at them from the sides. He crouched down and took the time to line up his aim, then squeezed the trigger. His target flew backward from the impact of the shot.

Hunkered down behind their own cover, Aramis and d'Artagnan also continued to shoot and reload, picking off the men one by one until the odds finally seemed to be in their favor again and Porthos got ready to unsheathe his schiavona to take on the remaining soldiers.

Then a rustle of branches behind him followed by a puff of hot breath on his neck had Porthos whirling around. A large dragon's face inches from his own had him scrabbling backward and tripping so he fell flat on his back, which probably saved him from getting shot.

"Porthos!" Aramis yelled.

The gray dragon leered and stepped forward, claws gouging the soil next to Porthos as the beast loomed over him.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan's shout rang out.

Porthos couldn't tear his eyes from the fangs hanging above him, but he was aware when the Spanish soldiers surrounded them and the dragon didn't finish him off. Chancing a flitting glance around, Porthos spotted another dragon backing Aramis and d'Artagnan into a line of soldiers who swiftly divested them of their weapons.

The dragon above him stepped back to allow the Spanish soldiers to move in and snatch up his weapons, then haul him to his feet. Porthos gritted his teeth. So much for those treaties about no foreign dragons in Savoy. He was going to kill Rochefort for this.

Wait…

Porthos surreptitiously swept his gaze around the woods, but there was no sign of Rochefort, or the red guard. He looked at Aramis and d'Artagnan, and by their taut expressions, they'd noticed too.

But they had their own immediate problems to worry about.

With several pistols and swords pointed at them, their captors started to march the musketeers back to the outpost.


	4. Chapter 4

Rochefort watched the musketeers take up defensive positions, and the moment their backs were turned, he grabbed the red guard traitor and dragged him further into the woods, away from the battle.

They passed one of the Spanish dragons coming up on the musketeers' unguarded flank, and Rochefort merely touched one finger to his temple in a wordless salute. The dragon curled its lip at him but moved on. Everyone would have been told who Rochefort was and not to harm him.

The red guard's eyes were wide as he gaped at him, and Rochefort scowled as he shoved him along. He only went far enough to be out of earshot of the soon-to-be-over fight happening behind him before he pulled up short and turned to his prisoner.

The man gestured impatiently at his gag, and Rochefort reached out to yank the scarf out of his mouth.

"It's about time. For a moment back there I thought you were working with those musketeers. It's good to see an ally, Rochefort."

Rochefort gazed back at him blandly, then nonchalantly pulled out his pistol and shot the man point blank in the chest. There wasn't even time for him to be surprised, but Rochefort didn't care. He tucked his pistol back into his belt and turned to quickly make his way back to the French border.

He wasn't being stealthy about it, since he was in a hurry, but he was startled when a red dragon suddenly loomed out from behind some large bushes to block his path. He scowled and swept past it. The dragon made an indignant gurgle and followed. The other two were in last night's campsite, the green and white one, and both of them were on their feet and looking agitated at his arrival.

"Your musketeers are dead," Rochefort announced, making his way toward where his dragon was lounging in the shade. "We must return to Paris."

There was a round of more aggravated sounds among the Musketeer dragons, which Rochefort ignored. He tapped Falkor on the shoulder brusquely to get him up. His dragon rose stiffly and Rochefort moved around to the side to climb into the saddle.

The other dragons were exchanging fraught looks, and then as one they all turned their gazes east into Savoy.

"It's useless," Rochefort snapped. "We were outnumbered, and the Spanish had their own dragons. I barely escaped."

The red and green dragons narrowed their eyes on him.

Rochefort nudged Falkor into taking flight.

The Musketeer dragons lifted off behind him, but then swung away to head into Savoy territory.

Rochefort twisted in his saddle, glowering in disbelief and chagrin. Stupid beasts. Fine, they could die just like their riders had. His mission was accomplished, and he would now return to Paris a welcome hero in the eyes of the King.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan was shoved roughly to his knees back at the Spanish outpost, Aramis and Porthos right next to him. Despite the men they'd taken out in the forest, there was still a good handful left, plus those two dragons. At least since the Spanish thought they were bandits, they shouldn't be executed on the spot.

The leader said something to some of his guards, who then moved forward to start binding their prisoners' hands.

One of the other soldiers moved toward the man in charge and pulled him aside, speaking quietly in a rapid stream of Spanish. Aramis's brows furrowed.

D'Artagnan leaned toward him and whispered, "What are they saying?"

"The subordinate is questioning why we weren't killed back in the woods," Aramis replied, equally softly. A muscle in his jaw visibly tightened. "They know who we are."

"How?" Porthos hissed.

Aramis just shook his head and kept quiet as the leader ignored the questioning guard and strode over to them, a smug expression on his face.

"The Duke of Savoy has a special interest in musketeers," the man spoke with a thick accent. "One musketeer in particular." He roved his gaze over each of them before settling on Aramis.

D'Artagnan stiffened and exchanged an alarmed look with Porthos. Aramis met their captor's gaze and didn't flinch, though he had to be just as unnerved by the threat. The only interest the Duke of Savoy had in musketeers—Aramis particularly—was a vengeful taste for torture.

"The Duke will pay a handsome fee to get his hands on you," the man went on. He turned to one of his soldiers. "Send word to the Duke."

The man gave a clipped nod and hurried off. The other guards seized the musketeers and dragged them over to a large tree only to throw them onto the ground again. They gestured to one of the dragons, who shuffled over to stand guard. The other one meandered off into the woods.

D'Artagnan tried to subtly wriggle his hands in an effort to free them, but the ropes were bound securely. Not that they'd get far with the dragon sentry looming over them. In fact, d'Artagnan felt eyes on him and he stilled his movements, glancing up at the beast sitting a few feet away. The dragon sneered at him knowingly.

"Aramis…" Porthos said quietly, tone heavy with concern.

"I'm fine," Aramis replied, though his voice lacked a certain convincing quality. "We need to find a way out of this."

D'Artagnan made a scoffing noise. "Unless Rochefort comes back to help us, I'm not seeing many options."

"That bleedin' coward," Porthos growled. "If I ever see that weasel again…"

He didn't finish the thought, not that he needed to.

But in the next moment, the dragon sentry suddenly jerked its head toward the sky and shrieked just as three dragons came swooping in. Vrita and Rhaego went straight for the gray dragon while Ayelet landed in the middle of the clearing and spewed a stream of fire at the scattering soldiers.

The musketeers immediately reacted, lunging from their position and tackling a guard backing into them. Porthos clubbed him with his bound hands and Aramis slipped a dagger from its sheath. The marksman turned to d'Artagnan and deftly sliced through his bonds. D'Artagnan took the knife and hurriedly freed Aramis and Porthos while screams and shouts rent the air around them.

The gray dragon turned and fled, which freed Vrita to turn her attention from fighting it to clobbering any Spanish soldier within reach.

The musketeers snatched up their weapons, hastily tying their belts on, and then bolted for their dragons. Once they were in the saddles, the dragons flapped their wings and took to the skies. The Spanish dragons didn't follow suit.

D'Artagnan leaned over Ayelet's neck. "You're making a bad habit of not staying put when told," he chided her, but there was no heat in it. Each time she'd disobeyed, she'd ended up saving his life.

Ayelet tossed a smug look back at him as though thinking the exact same thing. D'Artagnan couldn't suppress an amused and grateful grin.

They flew with all speed out of Savoy and back into France. D'Artagnan didn't know what they were going to tell Athos and the King. This entire mission had been a disaster and could put tension on France's relationship with Savoy. Although, knowing the Spanish had dragons at their outpost might make them keep their silence on what had transpired, lest they draw Savoy's ire on themselves.

Still, what had become of the Cardinal's lieutenant?

"I don' believe it," Porthos called caustically over the wind and gestured to something ahead of them.

D'Artagnan squinted and then ground his teeth as he recognized Rochefort's dragon, with none other than Rochefort sitting astride him.

With Falkor's slower pace, the musketeers easily caught up to them. Rochefort looked utterly dumbfounded at seeing them.

The dragons exchanged a few barks and then all of them proceeded to land without prompting. Porthos was out of the saddle first and storming toward Rochefort. He reached up and yanked the Comte off his dragon. Falkor bared his fangs in response but didn't attack.

"What are you playin' at?" Porthos snarled and shoved Rochefort back into his dragon.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rochefort spat back.

"You jus' up an' left us to fight a losin' battle while you ran like the yellow-bellied liver you are."

"I put the mission first!" Rochefort snapped. "The traitor could not be allowed to fall into the hands of Spain."

"Then where is he?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Rochefort drew his shoulders back and composed himself. "I was forced to kill him."

"And afterward you thought you'd just head back to France alone," Aramis said.

"I had no way of knowing you were still alive. You expect me to sacrifice myself on, as you put it, a losing battle?" Rochefort scoffed. "Someone had to return to Paris to inform the King of the mission's success. Besides, I see your dragons saved the day. Had I not returned to them, they wouldn't have known to come after you."

Porthos was practically vibrating with fury as he spun away and marched back to his dragon.

D'Artagnan had to admit their dragons had saved them, but they shouldn't have needed them to in the first place, not if Rochefort's intel had been more accurate. Though, d'Artagnan supposed people were allowed to make mistakes. It could have happened to any of them.

"Let's go," Aramis said tightly, turning to climb back onto Rhaego.

The rest of them mounted up as well and resumed their flight back to Paris. They had succeeded, in the end.

But d'Artagnan did not feel the least bit satisfied about it.

.o.0.o.

By the time they returned to Paris, it was too late to speak with the King, plus Athos insisted they all take some rest and refreshment after their long journey. Rochefort didn't mind. He strode into the palace and snagged the first servant he could find, demanding a bath be drawn for him and a barber sent for immediately. The maid had hesitated, probably due to his scruffy and dirty appearance, but he'd grabbed her forcefully by the arm and threatened to have her whipped for not obeying the Comte de Rochefort. She'd scurried off after that, and a short time later, Rochefort was groomed and dressed in a manner befitting his station. For the first time in a long while, he felt like a man again.

The next morning he was called to brief the King on the mission, though he had to share the telling with the musketeers. Rochefort made sure he got the last word, though, concluding the report by saying the threat was no more, that Rochefort had seen to it the Cardinal's lieutenant would never get the chance to betray the King again.

Louis nodded seriously. "Death is the only fitting fate for such a traitor," he said. "Congratulations, Rochefort, on a job well done." He turned and nodded to Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan as well. "To all of you. Despite the setbacks, you have once again triumphed as I have come to expect from my musketeers."

Rochefort clenched his jaw but quickly smoothed his expression when the King looked back at him.

"It is good to have you back at court, Rochefort. I look forward to spending more time with you and hearing more of your tales."

Rochefort inclined his head graciously.

Beside the King, the Queen gave him a warm smile that out-shined everything else in the room and almost tempered the burning ire he held toward the musketeers for fouling up his grand plan. Things would have gone better if he alone were standing here in glory, not sharing it with those damned musketeers.

No matter, though. Rochefort was still a favored hero, and he would find other opportunities to further ingratiate himself with the King.

The assembly adjourned, and Rochefort made his way down to the dark chapel. As he expected, Perales was waiting for him.

The Spanish ambassador glared at him, clearly unimpressed. "Given that your plan failed in so many respects, you have done well," he said sardonically. "Sadly, a dozen men died."

"The musketeers proved more resourceful than I expected," Rochefort replied. Much more resourceful. And their dragons. He'd have to be careful of them too. "But I promised you I would win the confidence of the King. Have I kept my promises or not?"

"You have achieved nothing yet," Perales scowled.

"The King trusts me and the Queen loves me," Rochefort countered staunchly. "One day soon, I will drive a wedge between them that will bring this country to its knees."

Perales didn't look convinced. "Be careful, Rochefort. I will be watching you closely."

The man swept past him, leaving Rochefort to glower at his back. Oh, Rochefort would be watching him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> When a series of preternatural afflictions strike Paris, the musketeers are forced to work with Rochefort to find the one responsible and put an end to the mayhem.


End file.
